This blog is about anything I think is funny. B of All, this blog is about the adventures of being single in Washington DC. C of All, this blog is about fashion faux pas, pop culture, and the pursuit of a really good hot dog.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

So this is what my hair is doing these days: It's long. It's brown. It's kinda a pain.

Which is why I'm so glad I found my new favorite thing: Ojon Rub-Out Dry Cleanser. My hair stylist told me that I shouldn't wash my hair everyday, since all of that styling is just way too damaging to my lovely locks. Unfortunately, not washing everyday introduces a grease factor. In the past I would try to mellow it out by rubbing baby powder through my hair. This isn't such a great approach because it makes me smell like an old woman or a baby's butt (both not what I'm going for), and it generally just ends up a greasy/goopey mess which I have to scrape up into a ponytail anyway.

This is where the Dry Cleanser comes in handy. Because it's DRY. But it still CLEANS. And you just spray it all over your hair and automagically you have clean hair. It's about time the scientists of the world finally created something that has a real life-changing impact. I mean, what we're talking about here is SPRAY ON CLEAN, PEOPLE! Consider the possibilities!

I really don't know how my life could get any better. Not only do I not have to get up early so I can spend those 15 minutes drying and styling my hair, but it makes my hair instantly glamorous with like zero effort on my part.

Finally, I have reached Hair Nirvana!

(My second favorite thing is Picnik ... which I used to create the cute picture above! Fun, huh?)

Friday, March 21, 2008

I've been in the habit of taking a nice little snooze on my sofa after work for the past couple of days. Tonight I was heartily snoozing away, when I felt a little prickle at the end of my nose. I peeled a eyelid open to see Mustard sitting on my chest poking his sword-shaped sandwich toothpick into my nose region.

(He's been hauling this sword around with him everywhere ever since he got it at last week's Peep Show. He pokes anything that comes within a 6 inch radius of him.)

"You've been promising to post my Peep Show pictures for a week now." He said testily. "And here you are, SLEEPING. Which you know, is exactly the opposite of POSTING."

I groaned. "You're right, you're right. I know you're right. But I don't think you understand how time consuming my hobbies have gotten lately. The online dating, and the real dating, and then having a job that actually requires me to work at it!? And don't even get me started on the gym."

"Blah, blah, blah. So what if you're spending 2 hours at the gym every night? Sure, you need it, but I don't see why your fat ass should have to come between me and my fans." He snorted.

"Fans? What fans? Need I remind you that you, dear Mustard, are a glorified condiment? Don't be giving me a hard time for being dedicated." I snorted right back.

"Pshish." He waved his sword in an irritating la-di-da kind of way, and said, "Honey, I may be a condiment, but without me you'd be one of those run of the mill middle-aged single girl rant blogs. Talk about overdone! AND ... need I remind you how many times people say to you, 'Hey, what's up with Mustard?' So don't go acting like you're ALL THAT. We both know where the talent lies in this operation."

"You," I grumbled, "are such an irritating little .... "

"Yes," he cut in with his winning little smile, "But you know you love me anyway. You are my Number One fan! And of course, I am totally like YOUR Number One fan. So will you pleeeeaaase post my pictures now?" he wheedled.

I sighed and said, "Fine. But only because I do owe it to MY fans. Now get off of my chest. And never stick that sword anywhere near my face again."

He grinned, hopped down, and said, "Okay, Okay. It's a deal. NOW! Less talking! More Typing!"

So now, I present you with some highlights of the Peep Show. Camie does a much better job chronicling the event.

Ok here is Mustard, Rockin the Socks off his "Fans" with an Axel Rose inspired scarf, a princess crown (cuz he's kind of a diva), some metallic pants (which he hated!), and his sandwich sword (which he has not set down once.)

Mustard is backed up by some peep bunny back up dancers ... but really, this is just a place for him to be his regular exhibitionist self.

When he wasn't Rockin the Mic, Mustard was swapping trade secrets with this Viet Cong Chook, in the Peep Ode to Torture and the Vietnam Prison Camp.

While the rest of us were laughing and chatting, I walked over to where Mustard and the Viet Cong Chook were whispering, and I swear to you I heard Mustard say, "Really? So you just drip water on their foreheads for hours and that classifies as torture? Huh. I wouldn't have EVER imagined such a thing." That was when I knew it was time to go before he got any more ideas.

Later in the car, Mustard expressed his disappointment in me that I hadn't chosen this theme to portray him in all of his manly manlitude. I told him I didn't care. I like rock concerts. Deal with it.

And actually, since he's practicing dealing with things, he's going to have to deal with the fact that those are all of the pictures I'm going to post. What can I say? Lazy is the new Pink.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Last Monday night I was at the gym busy getting my butt kicked by a set of Karate Kid Squats when I looked over and made eye contact with someone I thought I recognized. But I wasn't quite sure. It could have been an ex-coworker who had had a raging crush on me a couple of years ago. But it might not have been. I knew I had to tread lightly before making a positive ID. After two more sets, when I caught him sneaking a few glances at me, I decided it must be him.

Deciding that dodging him would be stupid I approached him, confirmed his identity, and proceeded with all of the "so where are you working now" chatter. About 35 seconds later I remembered why I didn't return his crush oh so many years ago when we worked together. He's a super nice guy, but super, super, SUPER shy. So shy it makes it practically impossible to get any interesting conversation out of him at all. I'm just not patient enough to sit there and wait for him to build up the courage to ask me if I still live in the same place. It takes a little more razzle-dazzle to get my interest.

Now seems like a good time for the high-level history of our acquaintance:

We worked at the same company for about a year

Every two weeks during that year, he'd come by my cube, and stand there and blush while trying to think of something to say.

He brought me a mug from Las Vegas.

We never made it past the chit-chat stage.

Then one day, we both happened to be walking out of the building at the same time, and when it came time to part ways, he called me back and finally built up the courage to ask me out.

Still not interested, but I couldn't in good conscience crush what had obviously been a huge win against his shyness.

I said yes.

But then I re-planned the date he had planned so that it would be more convenient for me. (I'm super nice that way, eh?)

The date wasn't so bad ... just painful to make conversation. Afterwards he called me a couple of times, and left some messages. But then he changed jobs, and I was happy to let it all just slip into the woodwork of my dating life.

So ... after our accidental meeting at the gym, I wasn't too surprised to get a text from him asking me out again for this Saturday. I'm trying to be more open minded about dating. You know, what with the online dating thing and all. I figure my elitist attitude hasn't gotten me very far. So I agreed to go out.

But I reserved the right to not be very excited to go. And I actually hoped it would be a disaster so I'd have a great Beware the Ides of March story to tell you guys. (I'm all about the bad date story, you know. It's really the main reason I agree to do this kind of thing).

Imagine my surprise when we had a really nice time! And while the conversation could never be described as "bubbly" or "exciting" it was steady and somewhat interesting. And when I found myself sitting quietly in his car as we drove home in a very comfortable silence, I thought, "The fact that I had a pretty nice time might be more unnerving than if this had been a complete disaster."

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

I've always been really good at faking that I'm good at many things that I am actually crap at. (Except math. It's not even worth it to fake anything related to math.) But the cold hard reality is that I don't know how to do everything, and I'm finally getting around to sloughing off those extra things that really have no place in my "realm of expertise." Like cooking.

I hate to shock you guys, but .... turns out I can't cook.

I know, you're like, "How is this possible? You come from a family of cooks? Braising is in your genes. In fact, I've had plenty of really good meals that you've made." And it's true, I used to be quite a good cook, and my mom and chef brother cook circles around each other every chance they get. We regularly debate roasting methods and copper-bottomed cookware at family gatherings. So basically, admitting that I can't cook anymore will make me a pariah with the fam. But somewhere along the way, my natural born talent got overpowered by the ease and convenience of Hamburger Helper dinners. What's a girl to do?

Now, before we get confused, I'm talking about cooking ... not following a recipe. I can usually manage to follow a recipe. What I can't do is create a recipe, or improvise on a set of ingredients. No matter how foolproof it seems, it's always destined for failure.

For example, on Sunday, I decided I wanted to recreate this salad that I had at Zingerman's Roadhouse in Ann Arbor, MI.

Basically, I would eat this salad every day for the rest of my life. And it looks pretty simple, right? Well, the whole thing just failed. It was soggy and boring, and a shadow of the salad I was hoping it would be. I was crushed because this wasn't just one failed salad, it was an overwhelming signal that I should just give it up.

It's actually quite liberating giving up these fake expertise of mine. Now I can have people over for dinner, but won't have to stress out planning a menu (not to mention trying to make a damn cream sauce - those are my nemesis!) And really, doesn't everyone secretly love Chicken Nuggets more than cannelloni?

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

OK, so we all know that I have like zero opportunities in my daily life to deal with children, right? I mean, this isn't a surprise to anyone, is it? So I can hardly be blamed if I'm not so great at the basic child caring stuff, right?

Let's just all please keep this in mind as I relate the following story.

One of the women I know has a husky 6 month old baby boy. He's a big kid, and very active. And so I was holding him and throwing him around and basically entertaining the hell out of him after church on Sunday. Unfortunately, I was wearing a really fantastic coat at the time, and it didn't really afford too much mobility or range of motion in the arm region. So when little Timothy did a slow-motion back flip out out of my grasp, I couldn't really get a good hold on him. And he sort of tipped backward and started sliding toward the floor. It became clear pretty quickly that he was going to do a face plant, and all I could do to salvage the situation was to turn that face plant into more of a "setting him down on his face" type scenario. Not ideal, I grant you, but the best to be hoped for given the circumstances.

So I frantically grabbed at his shirt, then his pants, and as he was getting close to the floor I made a last dash effort and grabbed at his diaper ... and I'm sorry to say I accidentally gave his little boy kibbles and bits a pretty significant pinch. In fact, I essentially lowered him by his willie until he landed on his face.

Let me explain by saying that I really didn't have a lot of choices. I could have let him crash to the floor onto his head. Broken his fall with my foot. Or lowered him down a mite more slowly by his nether regions. Sometimes you've got to make hard choices in life, this just happened to be one of them.

I'm not sure what he was more upset about: the face plant of the willie pinch. Either way, he was NOT happy with me. But never fear, mothers, after about 1 minute crying he was happily playing again.

And I sternly reminded myself that THIS is why I don't take care of children.

Monday, March 3, 2008

After winning Jagermeister T-shirts for my entire table at a bar over the weekend (leave it to the only sober person in the room to successfully translate the word "meister") it came out that I was Mormon.

Him: Wait, you're Mormon?

Me: Yup.

Him: You don't look white enough to be Mormon.

Uh, whaaaaat? I consider myself to be pretty good at handling the "you're Mormon?" comments, but besides the look of bewilderment on my face, I had no response to that.